


i am no icarus

by soullistrations



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/F, Livia and Paris are married in this, Original Characters - Freeform, Revenge, Spies, but don't read if you're a fan of their relationship, court intrigue, murder plots, this story ain't about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28187256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullistrations/pseuds/soullistrations
Summary: I am a woman and the sun is in me.I am a woman and my ever-lasting fire willburn your world.At the Gathering of the Six Courts in Vicenza, Princess Isabella of Verona sees Countess Livia of Padua for the first time in two years.
Relationships: Livia Capulet/Count Paris, Livia Capulet/Princess Isabella
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	i am no icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScQ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScQ/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide!! I was inspired by what you said about Livia and Isabella, so I had to write something. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title/Summary from this poem by Shahnaj S.:
> 
> Don't fly too close to the sun, you told me.  
>  _You'll fall, go lower.  
>  You'll suffer, go slower._
> 
> But I failed to see: you were the sun.  
> And your light burned right through my  
> wings.
> 
> But I am no Icarus.  
> I am a woman and the sun is in me.  
> I am a woman and my ever-lasting fire will  
> burn your world.

Vicenza had clearly spared no expense when it came to decorations, Isabella thought, watching the streets of the city pass by the window of her carriage with a sardonic eye. The exterior walls of Vicenza’s central palace were draped in richly colored banners, and garlands of flowers were strung along the top of every wall. As Princess Isabella’s carriage drove through the main gate, a company of horns greeted her arrival, and Isabella shook her head. “How much money do you think Venice contributed to this celebration?” she asked her lady-in-waiting as the carriage pulled to a stop.

“It _is_ a momentous occasion,” Ilaria equivocated, looking out the window. “I’m sure Vicenza wanted to impress.”

 _And Venice, no doubt, is happy to open their coffers when every coin draws Vicenza further under their thumb,_ Isabella opened her mouth to say. But servants were already approaching the carriage, so the princess swallowed her words and nodded blandly at Ilaria instead. From here on out, there would be eyes and ears everywhere.

A manservant, bedecked in the gold and green of the Duke of Vicenza, helped Isabella out of the carriage. As she stepped blinking into the afternoon sun, she was again assaulted by the sheer amount of finery in the open courtyard. A high platform, festooned with greenery, stood at the midway point of a carpeted path from the carriage to the palace door. On either side of the path townspeople and nobles alike chattered to each other, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the princess. From the top of the platform a crier stepped forward and announced, “Princess Isabella of Verona and her royal court!” 

The gathered crowd fell silent and bowed. Isabella rolled her shoulders down, back, and made her way down the path under a sea of awed stares. Her two advisors, Ilaria, and the rest of the royal entourage fell into well-practiced step behind her. It was a familiar scene for the princess, one that had greeted her on nearly every diplomatic journey she’d made in the past two years, but something about this occasion--she wasn’t sure what--left a knot in her stomach.

At the door, a butler waited for them. “Welcome to Vicenza, Your Highness,” he said. “I am Bartolo, and I have the honor of escorting you to the throne room.” He led them through an arched great room and into a long hallway lined with tall, colored windows.

“Is Verona the first to arrive?” Isabella asked as they walked.

“We received the Doge’s retinue from Venice yesterday,” Bartolo answered. “And,” he paused, his mouth quirking into an almost placating smile, “The Count and Countess of Padua arrived this morning.” 

_Ah._ Something fluttered once more in her stomach, and Isabella had to correct herself. She knew exactly what was different about this occasion. 

Behind her, Piero Antonori, her military advisor, made an unhappy sound, but a sharp look from Isabella silenced him. It wouldn’t do to give foreign servants gossip fodder, especially on the eve of such historic negotiations. “We must send them our regards,” she said with a soft smile. “After we greet the Duke of Vicenza, of course.”

Which, speaking of, they were approaching an ornate set of doors at the end of the long hallway. With a gesture from Bartolo, two servants pulled them open to reveal a throne room, and he announced in a loud voice, “Princess Isabella of Verona and her royal court!”

At the end of the room, the Duke of Vicenza stood, an indulgent smile on his face and his hands held wide. “Princess Isabella!” he cried. “You’re here at last!” With that declaration, he stepped down from the dais and bounded forward to meet them in the middle of the room, his wife following in his wake.

Duke Stefano di Vicenza was a large man, barrel-chested, with solidly built arms and an impressive black beard that was flecked through with gray. His wife, Duchess Chiara, was smaller, though not by much, and her kind eyes and red hair complimented the green gown she was wearing beautifully.

Isabella had always liked the Duchess. If only her husband weren’t such a trusting oaf.

“Welcome, Princess. How was your journey?” Duchess Chiara asked.

Isabella smiled. “Peaceful. The road from our doorstep to yours is a beautiful one. You should travel it someday when you come to Verona.” 

“Ah, an invitation!” Duke Stefano cut in. “See, Chiara? This gathering is already a fruitful one!” Chiara smiled at her husband graciously, and Stefano turned back to Isabella. “Welcome to the first ever Gathering of the Six Courts! This momentous occasion calls for a toast.” He waved his hand impatiently, and a servant hurried over from the wall, carrying a platter laid with three small gold cups. Stefano picked up one, his wife a second, and Isabella the third. 

Isabella passed the cup to Ilaria. “My lady-in-waiting and food tester,” she explained to the Duke and Duchess as Ilaria took a small sip, nodded, and passed it back to Isabella. “Verona has had to take certain precautions as of late, I hope you understand.”

Duke Stefano nodded soberly. “How _is_ your brother faring?”

“He grows stronger every day. As does Verona.” A practiced line, accompanied by a practiced smile. The words were like ash on her tongue.

Stefano shook his head. “Awful stuff, that, just awful. Did you ever catch the poisoner?”

“No.” Isabella let her practiced smile drop, just a bit. “But we remain hopeful that those responsible will be brought to justice.”

“Of course, of course,” Stefano nodded, frowning in agreement, and Chiara stepped forward and continued for her husband. “We will be in prayer for Prince Escalus’ swift recovery, and his absence at this gathering will be keenly felt. However, we are honored to have you here, Princess Isabella.”

“To friendship!” Stefano declared, raising his cup high, and Isabella and Chiara did the same. A swallow of wine, and then the conversation turned to more official topics: the introduction of Isabella’s advisors and the offered activities for the next week. After a few more minutes of talk, Chiara placed a hand on her husband’s forearm, and he abruptly switched topics once more.

“You must be tired from the journey,” Stefano said. “We have arranged the finest rooms for our friends from Verona! Bartolo, show the Princess and her retinue to their chambers. And Princess, please let Bartolo know if there is anything else you need.”

Bartolo stepped forward and Isabella excused herself from the Duke and Duchess with a ladylike nod, and then the butler escorted them out of the throne room and through the palace. Every path they turned down was as lushly decorated as the last, in ways that Isabella knew for a fact that Vicenza couldn’t afford. _Perhaps we need to contribute to Vicenza’s coffers as well_ , she thought cynically. But between Escalus’ poisoning and the in-fighting between the Capulets and Montagues that had only recently been quelled at last, Verona could barely afford its own protection these days, let alone a bribe to get into her neighbors’ good graces. No, if Verona wanted friends, they would need to take another path. 

“Your chambers, your Highness,” Bartolo announced with a sweeping gesture as he opened the door. It was, as Duke Stefano had promised, one of the finest rooms Isabella had stayed in during her travels. Richly colored tapestries hung on three walls, and a large doorway led to a balcony that overlooked the gardens. Isabella thanked Bartolo, who excused himself with a bow to show the rest of her court to their chambers. Isabella didn’t watch him go, instead making a beeline to the balcony. The sight was enough to take her breath away.

The gardens, at least, were not funded by Venice. No, these were native to Vicenza, a feature of the palace that had been carefully tended to for at least a century. Greenery and brightly colored flowers stretched out before her, and shaped topiaries lined a wide walking path that branched and snaked across the grounds. In the distance, rows of grapevines were lined up for what seemed like miles. Looking at the sight, Isabella felt her travelling fatigue lift, replaced by an itch to roam.

Isabella called for Ilaria, who came and helped her out of her travelling clothes and into a dress more appropriate for a turn about the grounds. Once changed, Ilaria left to make acquaintance with the servants of the castle, and Isabella made her way out to the gardens.

The sun had continued further on its path to the west, casting golden light on the flowers as Isabella walked. When she was far enough into the garden, Isabella turned to look up at the back of the castle. She found her own balcony quickly, and upon noting a few others dotting the long wall, she wondered which windows belonged to which visiting nobles.

Isabella turned away and took a deep breath, fresh air and the earthy scent of lavender filling her senses, and stopped to admire a tall bush cut into the shape of a horse and rider. The horse was rearing its head, and Isabella was pondering just how they managed the lifelike flow of its mane when a flash of motion in the corner of her eye caused her to turn her head. When she saw its source, all thought of the topiary horse left her mind. 

On the path adjacent to hers walked Countess Livia of Padua. She clearly hadn’t noticed Isabella yet, and the princess fought the sudden urge to duck behind a bush. Instead, she watched the other woman openly. Livia looked good. Healthy. She was dressed in a light blue gown, and a silver ornament in her black hair caught the sunlight as she walked, flashing in Isabella’s eyes and making it difficult to look at the other woman.

 _All right,_ Isabella admitted to herself. Perhaps it wasn’t the silver ornament that was causing the sudden seizing in her chest. 

Perhaps it was the fact that Livia was absolutely radiant in the afternoon sun.

Livia must have felt the weight of Isabella’s gaze, because she paused, turned, and met her eyes. The moment seemed to narrow down to just the two of them, neither daring to move, but then a distant laugh caused them both to startle, and Livia nodded her head in greeting. Isabella nodded back, and forced herself to turn away, walking in the opposite direction from the other woman. A sudden tiredness overcame her with every step she took away from the Countess of Padua, and by the time she got back to her chambers, she was heavy with bone-deep exhaustion. 

Isabella sent for Bartolo as soon as she got back, claiming fatigue from the road. That night, after praying in the chapel, she suppered in her chambers and fell into a fitful sleep. However, the next morning the sun greeted her, and with a bracing breath, she rose and got ready for the day.

After a morning meeting with her advisors that mainly consisted of her military and financial advisors bickering endlessly, Isabella ate lunch and made her way down to the gardens once more. Today, large tents draped in the colors of each court were set up in a wide arc around a sprawling green. A quick glance was enough to tell her that Duchess Chiara was the one who had set the order for the tents. Padua and Verona were at either end, as far away from each other as they could get. Vicenza and Venice were in the middle, of course, and in the tent next to Verona’s, Isabella was pleased to see a contingent of noblemen and women from Ferrara, gathered around a musician who was playing a ballad that had them all in stitches.

Isabella and her smaller court made their way to her tent, and a few minutes later a servant came in with a bow and presented the card of the Royal House of Este. Inside was a short message written in the Prince of Ferrara’s own hand, inviting Isabella to their tent.

Prince Santi of the House of Este, First of His Name, Ruler of Ferrara, gave her a tipsy smile from his cushion when she walked in. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Isabella of Verona!” he announced, usurping the steward waiting by the door of the tent. “My favorite princess.”

Isabella smiled indulgently and shook her head at him. “You have a little sister.”

“Yes, I do,” Santi agreed, but his smile only widened. “Come, sit with us. This lutist knows the _best_ songs.”

Isabella sat in the vacant chair next to him, and was immediately presented with a glass of wine. Prince Santi watched as she handed it to Ilaria, who stood at her shoulder, and raised an eyebrow as Ilaria sipped, nodded, and handed it back. Isabella waved her off, and with a bow, Ilaria left the tent. “You don’t trust my hospitality?” Santi said once Ilaria was gone, voice raised in a parody of offense.

“ _Should_ I trust you?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” He leaned in closer, his eyes focusing a bit more as he lowered his voice. “How is your brother?” he asked.

“Stronger every day,” Ilaria replied. Practiced answer, practiced smile. Santi studied her face for a moment, and then nodded and turned toward the lute player. “Play the one about the old woman from France!” he demanded, and the lute player launched into a shockingly dirty song that had the other courtiers in the tent roaring with laughter.

Under the cover of their hysterics, Santi leaned close again. “Venice is up to something. Duke Stefano has been following the Doge around like a dog since I arrived,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, then laughed uproariously at a joke from the musician.

Isabella smiled and clapped along to the song. “Venice poured far too much money into Vicenza for this gathering,” she agreed quietly. “And I’ve heard that they’re trying to get their fingers into Trento, as well.”

This startled a genuine laugh from the prince. “Oh, I’d love to see that. The Doge trying to woo the stiff-necked Count? We could sell tickets and be richer than Venice.”

“Hawking tickets? Are we peasants?”

Santi grinned at her. “It’s been too long, Isabella! You should come visit more, and teach my courtiers the biting wit of Verona.”

“I would love to,” Isabella said, “However, Verona has kept me busy of late.”

Santi nodded, his expression sobering. “Still haven’t found the culprit?” he asked. “It’s not--” he cast a meaningful glance at Padua’s tent-- “is it?”

Isabella shook her head, hoping the hitch in her heartbeat didn't show on her face. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, I suppose you roundly dispelled Count Paris’ delusions of grandeur with the way you sent him packing last time.” Santi leaned back. “Ah, that was satisfying to hear about.”

“I’m glad you’re entertained by my city’s woes.”

Prince Santi smiled, a biting thing. “Isabella, you know me. I’m entertained by _everything._ For example, _she_ is very interesting.” He lazily turned his eyes back to Padua’s tent, and Isabella followed his gaze. In the shade of the tent, Livia sat, surrounded by courtiers. A woman seated nearby leaned toward Livia and said something, and Livia laughed happily. Isabella was too far away to hear her, but even so her ears strained to catch an echo of the sound.

“--only, what, two years ago? And already, she’s absolutely beloved by everyone I’ve talked to from Padua.” Santi’s voice broke through her daze, and Isabella ripped her eyes from Livia to look back at the Prince. “She was one of yours, wasn’t she?” he continued.

“I’m sorry?” Isabella said, her heart quickening once more.

“A citizen of Verona. Wasn’t she?” She must have let some of her alarm slip onto her face this time, because Santi frowned and looked more sharply at her. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

“She was a citizen of Verona,” Isabella said, sidestepping his gaze and the question. “Not anymore.”

Isabella wasn’t looking at Santi, but she could feel his eyes on the side of her head. But in the end, all he did was hum suspiciously and then turn back to the musician once more.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of socialization, ladylike smiles, and entertainment provided by the Court of Vicenza. It was all a bit exhausting, and when the Count of Trento arrived in the early afternoon, completing the Gathering of Six Courts, the enormity of the occasion settled like a weight between Isabella’s shoulder blades. 

This weight was not helped by the fact that Countess Livia of Padua seemed to circle the border of Isabella’s conversations all day. They never spoke, never even occupied the same tent, and yet Isabella found herself constantly checking the edges of her vision for Livia. As she laughed and joked and smiled, she surreptitiously tracked Livia from a lively conversation in the Doge’s tent, to a bowling game on the lawn, to a quiet seat with the court from Trento. About midafternoon, the Count came out to the lawn to join her, and as he wrapped a possessive arm around his wife’s waist, Isabella turned away, her hand curling into a fist that she hid in the skirts of her gown. 

When the sun drew lower in the sky, Duke Stefano strode to the middle of their semicircle of tents and declared in a booming voice that it was time for a banquet. Isabella almost, _almost_ let herself slump with relief where she stood in Trento’s tent. Instead, she excused herself from a conversation about the scourge of the Lutherans and held herself straight as she walked purposefully back to her rooms. It was only once the door to her chambers was closed, and Ilaria was helping her out of her day dress, that she released her shoulders from their rigid line.

“Are you all right?” Ilaria asked as she laced up her corset.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Isabella answered. She looked around warily for a moment, but of course, they were alone. “Did you have a fruitful day?” she asked.

“I did!” Ilaria said, and though she was behind Isabella, the princess could hear the smile in her voice. “I met up with an old friend from Venice, and we had quite an interesting conversation.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, he was telling me how he likes to wander the grounds early in the morning. Apparently the sunrise is quite captivating.” Ilaria’s hands stilled where they rested in Isabella’s corset. “May I join him tomorrow morning, Your Highness? I would be back in time for breakfast.”

Isabella shook her head. “Let him walk alone tomorrow.” She looked over her shoulder. “After all, you do have responsibilities.”

Ilaria met her eyes and nodded. “I’ll send him my regrets.”

\---

The official opening banquet of the Gathering of Six Courts was monumental, with a dancing bear, a whole troupe of musicians, and most stunningly, a sculpture made entirely from ice. Isabella couldn’t help but gasp when she saw it glittering in the firelight next to the roast boar. Bartolo, her ever-present escort, showed Isabella and her court to their seats at one side of a large U-shaped formation. With the Doge on one side, and the Count of Trento on the other, it was sure to be an interesting evening. Isabella greeted them both and then let her eyes drift once more to the ice sculpture. The swan was shimmering, even now melting, and by the time the main course was brought out, it would surely be unrecognizable. To put so much work into something so transient...Isabella drew herself from her reverie at the feeling of eyes on the side of her head. She looked around with a deliberately relaxed expression and her eyes locked, for the second time in as many days, with Livia’s.

With her hair pulled up into braids studded with pearls, and a low-cut, rich blue gown covered with gold embroidery, the Countess of Padua glittered in the firelight just as much as the ice sculpture did. From her seat on the other side of the hall, she watched Isabella with a pinched brow. Then, Livia opened her mouth slightly, as if to say something, and Isabella briefly entertained the insane fantasy of climbing over her table, dress and all, and running across the banquet hall to Livia. But that was all it was--a fantasy. Isabella set her jaw and turned to face her advisors, smiling and laughing at a joke she had not heard a word of.

As she conversed with her courtiers, the time passed; quickly or slowly, Isabella wasn’t sure. The only thing she could focus on was not looking back at Livia. But, eventually her conversation with her trade advisor (what had it even been about? The price of sugar? His newborn son?) was cut short when the Doge of Venice stood from his seat and clanged his knife against his cup.

“Welcome, rulers, nobles, friends, to the first Gathering of Six Courts!” he said in a loud voice that reverberated around the full hall. From next to him, the Duke of Vicenza, the actual host, watched the Doge greet his guests with an enthralled expression. Isabella glanced over at Prince Santi and was unsurprised to see him leaning back, unimpressed, to whisper something to the nobleman next to him.

“This gathering has been long in coming, a true tour-de-force by everyone who contributed. Thank you, Duke Stefano, for hosting us. This idea, to bring together the great powers of the region, was but a twinkle in my eye, but you have made it come to life.” The Doge launched into the story of how the Gathering of Six Courts came to be, casting himself as the hero with a vision, and the Duke of Vicenza his earnest sidekick. If it had been her, Isabella would be more than offended. However, the Duke just nodded and laughed along with the story. Next to him, his wife Chiara watched with a slightly pinched smile. The Doge wove his story all the way to the arrival of each of the courts, and finally finished with a flourish, “May the coming week’s trade negotiations leave us all richer, more powerful, and closer friends than ever before. Our region flourishes together!” He raised his cup, and everyone in the hall did the same. A few nobles called out, “Hear, hear!” and “Bravo!” but Isabella stayed quiet, sipping her wine slowly as she looked around the hall.

The Doge’s toast led, as toasts often do, to a series of tributes from one court to another, a practice that quickly devolved into one-upmanship and florid language. Isabella made her contribution early, a toast to the Duke of Vicenza and his lovely wife. “Walking in your gardens at sunset yesterday, I felt my soul renewed by your command of nature. Your realm is a beautiful one, and I thank you for opening your doors to us.” She raised her cup high--”To Vicenza, and to continued friendship between us all!”

As she sat, Count Paris stood, looking over the gathered crowd with a benevolent smile. “This meeting is historic,” he started. “But I find myself saddened by those faces I do not see among those gathered here today. Your father, may he rest in peace,” he said, raising a cup to the Count of Trento, “and your brother, Prince Escalus.” Paris turned to her, eyebrows raised in a show of sympathy. Isabella raised her chin and stared back. “Their absence is keenly felt,” he finished, and paused for a moment, letting silence fall across the hall. “To those who are not with us!” Paris brought his cup to his lips and drank deeply, and as the rest of the hall followed suit, Isabella’s hand clenched around her own cup. 

As Paris sat, he looked once more across the hall at Isabella. “How is Prince Escalus faring?” he asked.

Isabella took a slow, deliberate breath through her nose and placed her cup gingerly on the table. “He recovers more each day. And every night, I pray for his continued strength, as well as Verona’s,” she announced to the hall.

Paris nodded, smiling disarmingly. “And you, leading Verona in your brother’s stead--it’s far more responsibility than should be expected of a woman, but you have done commendably.” He raised his cup once more, and around the hall a few men echoed his sentiments.

Isabella smiled thinly. “Thank you.” She took another sip from her drink and let her eyes slide sideways to the Countess, seated next to her husband. Livia looked back, a bland smile on her face, and when Isabella drank, Livia mirrored the motion.

Duke Stefano stood at that point, banging a fist on the table and raising his cup to alliances, new and old, and Isabella let her hands fall beneath the table to clench into fists in her skirts. She allowed herself a moment of outrage, one ‘ _how_ **_dare_ ** _he_ ’ screamed in the safety of her mind, and then she pushed the feeling down, an icy knot of fury in her gut. Later, in the safety of her chambers, she could let it melt, scream into a pillow, rage in the night. But now, she had to drink another toast.

And drink she did. The night passed quickly, toasts and dances and songs. After dinner, Isabella stood and made her way around the table, chatting with each ruling family individually. From Santi, she secured an invitation to a midafternoon concert in his chambers, and Duchess Chiara invited her on an early morning stroll through the garden the next morning. “Sunsets here are beautiful,” the other woman told her, “but you must see the garden at sunrise. Every morning is like a painting from the Lord.”

The party started to slow down after midnight, and after the court of Trento left to go to bed, everyone else dispersed not long after. Isabella and her court walked back to their rooms. 

In her private chambers, as Ilaria unlaced her corset, Isabella bowed her head. Without speaking, Ilaria helped her out of her gown and into a nondescript dress and cloak. Then, the two of them ducked out of their rooms and went to the chapel to pray. 

When they reached the chapel door, Isabella held up a hand to her lady-in-waiting. Ilaria opened the door, and when Isabella walked inside and closed the door, Ilaria stayed outside. 

Isabella stopped by the holy font at the entrance, dipped her fingers and made the sign of the cross. Then she turned into the candlelit chapel. At the end of the tall chamber, a dark figure knelt on a prayer bench. Isabella pulled down the hood of her cloak. and approached, her footsteps echoing on the stone.

The figure turned its head, then stood and turned completely to face the princess. In the glittering candlelight, her brown eyes almost seemed to glow. Livia.

“What are you doing here?” Isabella asked as she approached.

Livia looked back at her. “You are not the only one who prays for your city,” she replied.

“My servant is waiting at the door.” Isabella waved her arm loosely behind her, not taking her eyes from Livia’s face.

“Mine are at the back entrances.”

Isabella stilled. “You’re alone?” she asked, and Livia nodded, a small smile creeping onto her face. Isabella let out a breath, and opened her arms, and Livia rushed forward to fill them.

Livia wrapped her arms around Isabella, her hands gripping at her waist, and Isabella held her back just as tightly. She pressed her cheek against the other woman’s, and breathed in the scent of her. Livia smelled different, now, sage instead of the azaleas of her home in Verona--but that was to be expected. Livia hadn’t been to Verona in almost two years.

But here she was now, finally, _finally_ , a solid presence pressed up against Isabella’s chest. She wrapped her arms tighter around Livia, and felt the other woman’s breath hitch as she rested her forehead against Isabella’s shoulder. “Isabella,” she whispered, her breath warm against the princess’ throat. 

Isabella brought a hand up to rest cool fingers against the back of Livia’s neck, and the two stayed like that for a long moment, feeling their hearts beat against each other. Finally, Isabella pulled away. She traced her hands back slowly, uncrossing from Livia’s back, ghosting across her waist and up over her chest to cup gently at Livia’s face. Livia closed her eyes at the contact. She leaned her head to rest in Isabella’s palms, and Isabella drank in the sight of her face. She leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to Livia’s forehead, to her cheek, and finally, to her waiting lips.

Livia hummed deep in her throat, but then she pulled back and looked around. “Wait,” she said, and then looked over to a more secluded area at the side of the chapel. “Over here.” She led Isabella to the alcove, and pulled her down onto a bench. Livia looked at her, almost desperate in the dim candlelight. “What’s the plan?” she asked. “Is it happening?”

Isabella reached into a fold of her dress and withdrew a small bottle. “My men found the poison in Denmark,” she said. “Its effects match those that Escalus suffered. This must be what Paris used.” 

Livia started down at the bottle in Isabella’s palm, a complicated expression on her face. “And your brother--” she said. “At the banquet, you said…”

“It was the truth--he _is_ stronger every day. And by all accounts, it was a miracle that he survived the poison in the first place. But,” Isabella curled her fingers around the bottle. “He’s still weak. It’s been frustrating for him, this slow recovery. Defeating.” She shook herself. “But, I wouldn’t have left him behind if I feared for his survival.”

Livia reached out and cupped Isabella’s hand in her own. “We will get justice,” she said. “For me and my family, and for you and yours.”

“Rosaline is well, as well,” Isabella continued. “She and Benvolio have been invaluable these last months. She misses you.”

Livia nodded, squeezing her eyes shut with a trembling jaw, and Isabella reached up to cup her cheek once more. “You’ll see them soon, Livia--it’s almost over.”

“When?” Livia forced out.

“Tomorrow morning. My spymistress made contact with our man from Venice--he will be ready to flee from your balcony just before breakfast. I’ll be walking by with Duchess Chiara to bear witness to Venice’s culpability.” She pressed the bottle into Livia’s hands. “Pour this into his ear as he sleeps tonight. He’ll be dead by morning.”

Livia took the bottle, her fingers brushing against Isabella’s palm as she did so. She frowned down at it for a moment, then tucked it into the folds of her dress. 

“How are you?” Isabella asked.

“I’m--” Livia swallowed. “I don’t know. I’m tired of pretending.”

Isabella squeezed her hand. “Just a few more hours.”

“Will you visit this grieving widow?” Livia asked, a bitter, uncertain smile flitting across her face.

Isabella smiled. “I’ll be a friend to a grieving widow,” she said, kissing Livia’s forehead, “and I’ll be a perfect mentor to the new female ruler of Padua,” a kiss to Livia’s cheek, “and I’ll spend the rest of our lives worshipping our love.” With that declaration, Isabella captured Livia’s lips once more, a warm, open-mouthed kiss that sent a shock to her core. Livia pressed her backwards till her back was flat against the stone wall of the alcove, and threaded her fingers into Isabella’s hair.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed into Isabella’s mouth. “I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you.”

"You don't have to anymore,” Isabella breathed back.

\---

Isabella was tired from a late night as she walked across the grounds in the pink-gold light of the sunrise. But of course, she smiled and nodded as Duchess Chiara pointed out her favorite topiaries, a butterfly on a nearby bush, the way the light hit the back of the castle.

And when a scream ripped through the still morning air, of course Isabella whipped around frantically, searching for the source. And of course, she pointed out the man, decked in the signature blue and gold of the Venice coat of arms, sliding down a rope from Padua’s balcony. And of course, when a servant came running across the grounds to the two ladies, shouting that Count Paris had been found dead in his bed, she let out a horrified gasp and gripped Chiara’s arms, threatening to collapse with the shock of such awful news.

And if, for just a moment after Chiara rushed toward the castle with her manservant, Isabella let loose a momentary smile, who was there to see it? After all, the sun was only just rising. It was a new day.


End file.
